


Rich, Not Gaudy

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones has a secret hobby, and Jim's beginning to think it might be <i>awesome</i> if Bones would, you know, admit it so they could have some fun with the whole concept...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rich, Not Gaudy

**Author's Note:**

> This is my pinch-hit-thingy for the [](http://km_anthology.livejournal.com/profile)[km_anthology](http://km_anthology.livejournal.com/).. "cross-dressing" seems to be a somewhat slippery term, so I've interpreted it to mean "transvestism". Thanks to [](http://thistlerose.livejournal.com/profile)[thistlerose](http://thistlerose.livejournal.com/) for short-notice beta and cheerleading. The title's from _Hamlet_ , act 1 scene iii, Polonius's parting speech to Laertes. I intend its use playfully, and I think the description "rich, not gaudy" fits Leonard H. McCoy pretty well. :-)

Jim turned, startled, as the door hissed open. “Hiya, Bones,” he said brightly, because the dude looked like he could use some cheering up. Weary, that was the word. Starfleet sure overworked these medical recruits. Or perhaps this one simply overworked himself?

“Dammit, Jim, what the hell are you up to?” Bones asked, in that grumbly way of his that Jim was beginning to think meant he liked you. He looked pointedly from his open dresser drawer to the sexy gold lace panties dangling from Jim’s index finger.

 For answer, Jim retrieved the basket from the dresser top and manfully hefted it up over his head as though it were extremely heavy. Bones didn’t smile, but he’d always been a tough nut to crack. That was at least half the reason Jim liked him. “Did a load of laundry. Seemed like the least I could do after all the times I’ve crashed here due to perfectly understandable campus-curfew-related accidents. So, I was putting your boxers away—all folded up neatly, you’ll note, aren’t I good?—when I got side-tracked by this lovely item.” He waved the panties. “Someone has a lady friend with _excellent_ taste.” He leered. 

Bones did his patented we-are-not-amused thing, with the face-pulling and the eye-roll and everything. Then he marched over, seized back the frou-frou little lace concoction and the basket full of clean McCoy threads, and somehow managed to leave Jim feeling that he’d been caught doing something wrong instead of something nice. So he shrugged and went to pour them both a drink, and made his own bigger.

***

Jim wasn’t fooled the second time. Well, hardly anyone would have been, and certainly not a super-subtle genius like Jim.

He’d been sexiled from his room in the week before finals (which was wrong on so many levels he didn’t know where to begin, but the whole _honour among thieves_ thing applied even to mad Irishmen so Jim didn’t file a report), and headed over to Bonesy’s apartment, which was actually on the Starfleet Medical campus and was really rather spacious by modern urban standards. He let himself in, all ready with an explanation, but saw no sign of Bones. There was steam, though, and the scent of shampoo or soap or some such scented thing, so Jim gave a cursory warning knock and went into the bathroom. 

He caught only a glimpse, in between spotting Bones by the mirror and Bones completing the action of pulling up his pants and turning to glare reproachfully, but Jim had a photographic memory when it came to hot asses. Hot, thong-wearing asses. Silky, lacy, blue-green thong-wearing, seriously pert and perfect oh, my God, Bones, I never knew you had _that_ hidden away, absolutely fucking spectacular—

“Knock, why doncha,” said Bones, doing up his fly. It was plain from his expression that he knew the game was up.

“Sorry, man. Just wanted to let you know I was here.”

“Yeah, well, pretty sure I realise that now. _Thanks_. What d’ya want?”

That brief sight of the henceforth legendary and capitalisation-worthy Bones Posterior was still playing on repeat in Jim’s head. In slow motion. With multi-lingual commentary. He blinked, dazed. 

“I appear to have misjudged ya, Bones,” Jim said, without really meaning to, “turns out it’s you who has the fucking awesome taste in underthings. Care to show me your collection?”

Bones had gone from shower-flushed to dangerous-flushed. “Care to acquire a closer acquaintance with my fist?”

Jim blithely ignored the menace in his tone. “I don’t think our relationship has _quite_ reached that level of trust and kink and shit, Bones. Maybe in a couple months?”

Apparently that didn’t even merit another eye-roll. Bones turned away, towards the mirror, and began combing his hair with the air of a man conducting a very disobedient orchestra. Or possibly a firing squad. “We are never speaking of this again, you get that?”

That was strangely painful. Jim slumped a little in his starchy uniform. “I won’t mock, honest. I actually think it might be kinda hot.” 

Bones gave him a suspicious look in the mirror.

“I mean it, Bones. Scout’s honour or something.”

“Were you ever a scout?”

“Tiger Cubs count?”

Bones scowled and began putting on his shirt. “Bet you were a damn troublemaker even then, kid.”

“Uh huh. Following the pack never worked out real well for me.” Still no smile. Jim was beginning to think he’d never manage to do anything right by Bones ever again. “Coffee?” he suggested, last ditch effort. “Cart on the corner’s still open, I just passed it.”

The good doctor visibly perked up at that. Medical professionals, huh? Jim smothered his smirk and took himself away at a jog.

Bones was looking human and reasonable again by the time Jim returned with two cups of genuine, legitimate, actually-ground-from-planty-bits coffee. He was also sitting at his desk surrounded by padds and ancient, actual paper scholarly works, doing a very convincing impression of a busy busy man. Jim plonked a cup down by the red-leather-bound copy of _Ectothermic Humanoid Life: A Comparitive Xenobiological Study in Twelve Volumes: 2: Species Resident on M-class Worlds in the Alpha Quadrant, A-H_. He manfully resisted a sudden urge to tickle dear Leonard to see whether he’d laugh or choke some handy handsome someone.

They didn’t talk about it. Jim wanted to, but there just didn’t seem to be a safe way to bring it up. So they just sat and drank coffee, and later on sat down to their separate studies. Well, okay, so Bones sat at his desk with excellent posture, and Jim sprawled haphazardly half off the couch holding a padd at arm’s length above his face. But it was nice. And occasional stray thoughts about fantastic McCoy ass sure beat unpleasant imaginings of just what that bastard Finnegan might be getting up to with one or more guests in a room that contained everything Jim owned in the world.

***

Bones was _there_ , that was the main reason. There and sexy and looking like he was trying so damn hard to have a good time and it was almost, almost working. Anyway, Jim was just drunk enough not to talk himself out of his brilliant ideas (and not quite drunk enough to have an excuse), so when it occurred to him that it would be a mighty fine idea to squidge a little further along the vinyl-covered banquette and kiss his friend’s pouty, bourbon-flavoured lips, Jim instigated his plan at once.

It took a whole chorus of whatever shitty teeny-pop was playing over the bar’s tinny speakers, but Bones did eventually kiss back, slow and gentle and not at all what Jim wanted. He pulled back, tried to gauge his friend’s expression. Bones didn’t appear angry, or confused, or head over heels in instant and irresistible and perfectly natural James Kirk love. Dude was smiling a little, though, which was nice to see.

“What was that for?”

“Wanted to,” Jim said, suddenly strangely bashful. He _had_ wanted to, he realised, for quite a while. And not just because of the Worshipful Bones Posterior, though he totally wanted to kiss that too.

Bones looked at him for some time without speaking. Then he fished in the medical bag he always, _always_ brought with him whenever Jim took him out anywhere, even the library, and came up with a hypospray.

“Fuck!” Jim complained, when his neck received its inevitable attack. Negative reinforcement, man. Couldn’t have Bones start thinking it was okay to jab people randomly with medical equipment, even if he _was_ pretty well used to it by now.

Bones kept his gaze on the garish illuminated chrono in the corner while he stuffed his gear back into his bag. “Still feel like it?” he said, when enough time had apparently passed.

Jim, suddenly sober (never a pleasant transition), glared reproachfully, but had to admit that he did. 

“Right. Let’s get out of here. You go pay the tab, I need to stop that Bolian over there who apparently missed the memo about some of our puny human liquors bein’ toxic to his species. Meet you outside shortly.”

Jim’s prick wholeheartedly supported this plan. Jim’s head still wasn’t too happy about the rapid shift from pleasantly tipsy to stone-cold sober. He grumbled, but he obeyed his doc.

***

They walked side by side through the chilly evening, Bones humming a little tune that sounded country and quaint while Jim mused on why he felt so awkward. Normally he knew just what to do when he’d hooked up, or was about to hook up, or whatever this was.

“So,” Bones said at last, half way back to campus, “need a new fuck-buddy, do ya?”

He didn’t sound judgemental, so Jim took the question at face value. “Not _need_ , no. Want. Possibly more than fuck-buddies, also.” He looked to see if that had made any sense, but couldn’t read his friend’s expression in the street-lit gloom.

“All right, Jim,” came the reply at last, flat, ambiguous. 

Jim figured it would do.

***

No sooner had they got inside the apartment whose door label proclaimed “Leonard McCoy, MD, PhD” than the aforementioned double-doctor had shoved Jim against the wall and was kissing him thoroughly. Unfortunately, they were too close to the sensor, so the doors kept swishing open and shut again every time one of them moved. Bones growled and slapped the keypad, and the doors locked themselves with an obedient chirp. He followed this up with killing the lights which had come on automatically when they’d entered. Jim shrugged. Bit of with-the-lights-out could be nice now and then. He was all for variety of sexual expression; in fact, that could almost be the Jim Kirk political manifesto.

Bones was busy trying to extricate Jim from his new leather jacket that looked seriously fucking hot on, man, but might have been just a _wee_ bit tight, and Jim amused himself by helping as little as possible while groping Bones as much as possible. Groping was more or less his favourite winter sport, after all. Eventually the jacket came off, and the sweater beneath, and the t-shirt, and then Jim was lazy and simply stood there groping and kissing while Bones worried about getting his own jacket and shirt off. The kissing was good, Bones sure knew what he was doing with that pressure and that tongue and those tiny sexy growling noises that made a guy want to make stupid jokes about tigers and leashes and never letting him go again.

Bones, Jim discovered, had a number of ticklish spots on his back and sides, and each discovery earned him another delicious growl. Yeah, he was liking this.

When Jim’s hand dropped to work into the back of Bones’s pants, aiming for ass, however, he was surprised to find his arms grabbed, hard, and pushed away. _Huh_.

“Something wrong?” But even as he spoke his concern dissipated as he realised this was probably about the panties. Bones must be wearing the panties again, and didn’t want him finding out or getting evidence or whatever.

“Your cock isn’t going to suck itself. You going to be good?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” Jim replied emphatically when he realised Bones couldn't see him nodding in the dark.

“Brace against the wall, then, and drop your pants.”

Jim complied with all the motivated efficiency he’d failed to demonstrate in a dozen of the do-as-you’re-told-instantly-and-without-question-it-might-save-lives-one-day drills cadets had to do. He could hear Bones kicking off his shoes, lowering his zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then Bones was on his knees, hands running up Jim’s legs, breath warm against his groin. It felt like this moment might last forever.

Then a hand on his cock, reverent, exploring, and Jim imagined he was gauging size and weight.

“Very nice,” Bones said, voice gone all low and throaty. Wet warmth on the head of Jim’s prick, a tongue, a swift swipe and then gone. Jim shuddered and reached down, wanting something to hold onto. Found Bones’s hair with one hand, his strong shoulder with the other.

“Say please.”

Jim had the distinct sense he was being played with, but he _so_ didn’t care right now. “Please, Bones. Suck me.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

They both groaned as Bones took him in and began to suck. _Christ_ , the man knew what he was doing. Jim’s higher brain functions were going already, man. He writhed against his friendly, supportive wall, quite unable to hold still while that mouth sucked and licked him, occasionally pausing to kiss the tip, which was odd, but who’s complaining? And that hand, first stroking Jim’s dick in counterpoint to that awesome suction, then, when there was no room for it because Bones’d taken him deep, idly cupping and rolling Jim’s balls instead in a way that was maddening and wonderful and the best fucking thing ever all at once.

Jim lost it when his brain finally clicked that the sounds he was hearing meant Bones was jerking his own cock as well, and was pretty worked up too. His focus narrowed to that mouth on him, that pleasure, the knowledge that someone else was getting off on getting him off… Too much, too fucking much. Was he the luckiest bastard on Earth or what?

“Bones…” Not much of a warning, but all he could manage.

“Mm-hmm,” Bones said, around a mouthful of cock.

Jim came, hard, so hard he hadn’t the energy left to swear his way through it.

Bones groaned, and the whispering of fabric grew more frantic. He released Jim’s cock, but pressed his cheek against it. Another groan, this time most definitely of the orgasmic variety.

Somehow, eventually, they staggered to the bed, shedding clothes that were already half-off as they went. Bones didn’t snuggle, but he lay close, one hand tracing vague circles across Jim’s chest.

“So,” Jim said, because he just couldn't hold it in any longer. “The underwear. Can you not stand people seeing it, or do you think I’d be a jerk about it?”

He felt the warmth of his friend’s sigh against his shoulder. “I don’t need to be humoured or patronised.”

“It wouldn’t be that. Promise.”

Bones neither argued nor gave any sign he believed Jim. But the silence felt different after that. And, eventually, they slept.

***

“I come bearing gifts.”

Bones scowled, but it was Scowl Number Four, indicating no immediate danger. “Better be good. I’m busy.”

Jim popped open his satchel and then hesitated. Looked back up at his kinda-sorta-first-ever-possibly-maybe-long-term-serious-boyfriend (hey, it’d only been two weeks, but Jim was an optimist), looking all grumpy and scholarly surrounded by padds and medical diagrams and what appeared to be a plastic scale model of the Klingon female reproductive system. Was he stupidly rushing into this? Was there a more tactful way to broach—Oh, screw it. He was James T. Kirk, and the T was _not_ for _Tactful_. He drew out the skirt, held it by the waistband and gave it a bullfighterly flourish. “Got this from a friend. Stretchy waist, should fit you. I thought maybe we could—” Okay, so why was _he_ the one blushing? “—you know, explore your, um, I mean, what I think are your interests, just the two of us… if that was…”

“Doesn’t she mind?” said Bones, on his feet now but not looking like he was gearing up to charge.

Jim blinked. “Nah. Apparently this is _so_ 2255 and she wouldn’t be caught dead in it anymore or something.” He shrugged. “But I’ll buy her a new one if you decide to keep it, I’m good like that.”

Bones snorted. He also ventured forward—rather more timidly than Jim ever would have imagined possible—to stroke the silky orange material. He looked… pensive.

“Honestly, Bones, we can do this and it’ll be great. You’ll love it.”

“And you won’t go telling anyone.”

“Cross my heart.”

Bones plucked the skirt from Jim’s hands with gentle, doctorly fingers, made a brief trip to his dresser, then locked himself in the bathroom for an hour.

Fortunately, he had lots of reading material on padds lying scattered about the place and Jim Kirk was not a picky reader. _Adventures in Polymerase: A Guide for the Novice Geneticist_ suited him just fine. He sprawled out in his friend’s surprisingly comfortable desk chair, put his feet on the desktop, polished off the mug of cooling coffee he found there, and read. And didn’t miss that the copy of the book in question was a galley proof, or that chapter 5, “Encode, Recode, Decode”, had been penned by one L.H. McCoy.

***

“I feel ridiculous,” Bones said. But Jim couldn’t believe that for one fucking second, not with the way he was struggling so hard not to smile and looked positively glowing all over. Orange wasn’t his colour—actually, Jim wasn’t sure that particular shade of orange was _anyone’s_ colour—but the skirt was a good length on him, he had good knees, Bones. The skirt fell in sleek asymmetrical waves to an embroidered hem, and Bones had stuck on a white tank top to match the embroidery. He didn’t look feminine, but he did look… happy. Sort of relaxed, but also excited, maybe nervous.  
 Jim put down _Polymerase_ and bounded over to give the man a kiss.

This time, it wasn’t Jim who got shoved against a wall. 

“You been staring at yourself in the mirror all this time?” he asked, in between hasty, sloppy kisses. He slipped a hand up under the tank, thumbed a nipple, made Bones whine and shove back. Jim was _so_ not having that right now. He locked his knees and stood firm, unwilling to lose the upper hand here, and Bones settled for cupping Jim’s excellent ass and rocking his hips. Oh, yes, someone was definitely… eager.

The skirt felt cool and slinky beneath his hands. Jim dragged a fingertip along the waistband and felt Bones tremble, traced his hands over thighs and backside through the skirt and earned a grumble he couldn’t quite decipher. The kisses were getting a bit toothy (Jim’d already learned about certain downsides of an over-excited Leonard McCoy), so he pulled back to watch what his hands were doing as he slowly, so slowly, inched the skirt up Bones’s legs. Something about the smooth perfection of the fabric against the hairy, strong masculine thighs was actually starting to appeal to Jim, though he’d expected this to be fucking awesome because Bones dug it, nothing more.

“Jesus, Bones…” Hard cock. Big balls. Trying their best to spill out of skimpy, delicate, stretched-to-bursting, sexy fucking white lace panties. He couldn’t look away. It was too… striking, too…

Hands squeezed his ass, just a little too hard, and Jim looked up. 

“Problem, Bones?”

A wordless head-shake, as if speaking had become too complicated a thing. Jim stroked him through his panties and got a moan, though, so he hadn’t gone completely silent.

“This is strangely fucking hot, Bones. Hold your skirt up, would you?”

Instantaneous compliance. Awesome. Jim freed the eager Doctor Junior from the panties but didn’t lower them. Gave DJ a good stroke and relished the little whimper his friend could not hold back. Jim grinned. He was liking this a whole lot, thanks. And he had lube in his pocket. He liked to be prepared. Perhaps that whole Tiger Cub thing had done him some good after all? Anyway, he retrieved the little tube from his pocket before he lowered his jeans and his own underwear (rather plain by comparison). Slicked them both up, then hauled Bones into a better stance because the bastard had the audacity to be taller and that could suck sometimes.

They both groaned at the first touch of cock against cock, and then they were off, rubbing, sliding, writhing, grinding, Bones still clutching his twin handfuls of skirt, Jim with a hand on the awesome (and lace clad) McCoy Posterior and the other pressed against the wall.

“I’m doing you in lace panties,” he whispered into a convenient ear.

Bones growled and bit down on his shoulder. Damn, there was something to be said for blowing hot and cold if you could blow _this_ fucking hot when the time came.

“First time… for everything…”

“Uh huh. One day I’ll catch you wearing that thong again… bend you over something… fuck you silly.”

“Promises, promises.”

Jim grinned into the side of Bones’s neck, thrusting furiously against hard cock and soft lace. Some promises were no hardship to keep, man.

Bones came first, with a deep, hoarse groan that snapped the last threads of Jim’s control. He muffled his own noises against his lover’s shoulder, and gave it up in a half-dozen quick, hard pulses of pleasure. 

There just weren’t words for how good it felt, how… deliciously mutual this had been.

“You're awesome, Bones,” he murmured, drawing away before they could start sticking together.

Bones smiled. A trembly, naked, genuine kind of smile Jim had never seen on him before. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to make Jim go all melty inside.

He hid his amusement when the first thing—the very first thing—Bones did after the whole sex-recovery phase was to go and chuck the skirt and panties in the bathroom sink to soak.

The man was adorable. And had a hell of an ass. Jim just might be in love.

***END***


End file.
